Arrival
by JestaAriadne
Summary: Poland turns up unannounced at France's house, demanding cake and definitely not sympathy, never that.


_(This takes place a bit before 'Helpless'. So, Partitions. Here be emotional splurges/repression and understandable trust issues. Some not-nice things just hinted at.)_

_In which Poland does not want your freaking pity, basically._

* * *

France had perked up when he heard the commotion outside, throwing on a coat and hat and hoping for a decent bit of civil unrest this fine afternoon. It turns out to be only some dispute between stallholders in the square, but he stays to try and calm things down, and then for a coffee and a chat.

When he walks back into his house, someone is asleep on his couch.

"_Poland_?"

The former nation of Poland uncurls, cat-like, rubs his eyes and sits up. He's somewhere inside of a huge and threadbare black coat, like a beggared priest.

"I snuck in," Poland says. "Can I stay." There's no inflection to his tone.

France has had a surprise, true, but let no one say he is not a generous host.

"Of course!" he exclaims, spreading his arms wide. "Pardon my curiosity, but how did you get in here?"

"You left your door unlocked."

France thinks about this for a moment. "_Did_ I, really?"

"Eh, no."

"Well! Precocious little gamin, aren't you…?" He looks at the boy - it is hard to think of him as full-grown and a former power, especially in that ridiculous coat - and smiles, head on one side. "So then! You must tell me your story!"

Poland draws his legs up to his chest and hugs his knees. He's wearing boots. They are now on France's nice velvet upholstery.

"Ahem."

France indicates.

"Oh..." Poland looks down at his feet and doesn't do anything. A good five seconds later, he starts unlacing one boot without much enthusiasm and without taking his feet off the couch. Eventually, he drops both boots on the floor. "Better?"

"...Are you alright?" France asks, then rephrases: "Are you hurt?" It isn't much better.

Poland clearly agrees about the banality of the question. He raises an eyebrow. "Apart from every single thing going to shit? You know they actually _invited_ Russia to.. and he took—" He clamps his jaw shut. "Yeah, I'm just grand."

At least that was something, France thinks, a bit of spirit. Poland had seemed almost catatonic, breaking and entering aside. What exactly happened in these cases? This isn't a name or border change, even a conquest or occupation: from what he's heard, Poland was cut into pieces. From what he's heard, Poland was _killed_, and that had been a mercy. And yet, here he is. As a matter of purely scientific enquiry, France is interested to see what follows.

Now he's a little more awake, Poland suddenly demands: "Right, so, do you have any cake?"

"Cake," France repeats, baffled.

"Yeah. Or - pastries, you know. I'm hungry. Whatchamacallem. Millefeuilles. That would be good. Yes? Come on, at least Austria had snacks."

"You want cake."

"Um, yeah, I said so, didn't I? Seriously, what kind of place you running here?"

"Excuse me, I don't appreciate your rudeness," France says, affronted; he's heard Poland is hard work… "I don't have to do anything for you, you know; you could at least be polite, show a bit of gratitude."

That seems to set something off.

"Oh right. Gratitude," Poland says with incredible bitterness, and of a sudden he's up off the couch and much too close. He tosses his head, runs a hand down France's chest, looking up at him with slightly parted lips and eyes glistening dark with hatred and shame. "_Oh_, M. France," he whispers, husky, savage, "you've been _so_ kind, and I've nothing to offer in return, is there _anything_-"

"Stop." France steps back and knocks Poland's arm aside, not gently. The arm is stick-thin. "_Stop it_. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that - you know I didn't mean that."

"Do I?" Poland breathes heavily and his face is flushed. "I don't know a thing about you."

"You came to me, though."

"And I can just leave! It's not like I was expecting anything!"

"Poland! _Stay_." Is he commanding or imploring him? "Stay."

Then, as Poland says nothing, just glares at the floor, France starts again, making an effort to keep his voice soft this time. His entire instinct is to use some term of endearment, to touch, to hold and comfort, but that's out of the question now. "What the- What in Heaven's name happened to you? To _you_, I mean."

Poland springs to vivid life again and laughs in his face.

"NO," he snarls. "Just, no way on earth, France. It's like, you can give me something to eat and send me packing - only please _do_ give me something to eat because I'm kind of literally going to collapse - whatever. Or, yeah, honestly you could do anything the hell you want with me and I'm not gonna be much able to stop you, state I'm in, so go ahead, have fun! But, if you think I'm going to- to _pour out my heart_ to you, and cry into your shoulder while you give me comfort and philosophy and _understanding_? No. Way. On. Earth."

France lets the storm of words break over him. Poland balls his fists and glares defiance, braced for a blow that doesn't fall. There is no answer to be made.

A selfish, sensible bit of France is telling him that Poland is the kind of hard work he could well do without. But louder still, his heart keens and insists, _I_ will,_ someday somehow I will comfort you_. He recognises this feeling in himself, the part where he's headlong and heedless for the beautiful and the brave… (The part where, bizarrely, he starts to fall in love.)

As he'd said, Poland is by no means about to burst into tears. But he's shivering now, head to foot, teeth chattering. "It's freezing in here," he complains.

It isn't cold at all.

France finally breaks out of the trance he's been in for the past five minutes and takes some definite action. Blanket. Water, bread and wine in the meantime — _take it easy, Poland, don't make yourself sick_ — and a quick trip down the road to fill a bowl of soup. He does, in fact, have cake in the pantry but that's going to have to wait, until such time as no one is clinically half-starved. He finds some spare night things and comes back to check on his guest.

"Do you want to sleep now?"

Poland is starting to sway forward into his soup bowl. He nods. France hesitates then takes his arm to help him climb the stairs.

"Here."

Poland hangs back. "This is your room."

"I can sleep in the study," France says quickly. Usually he doesn't require more than one bedroom, although time was, a few years back, he'd lived in a bigger house, and had servants. The lack of prying eyes now is just as well.

"I could go there…"

"No, it's fine."

"What, are there all your secret diaries in there?"

There are all his _firearms_ in there. "Something like that," he says, then brightens. "…If you ask nicely, I'll read you excerpts, all the juicy bits!"

"Ugh, spare me." Poland rolls his eyes.

That's better.

France pulls across the curtains to block out the afternoon sun. Poland sits on the edge of his bed clutching the bundle of night clothes.

"Are you alright?" France asks again - _damn it. _ "Do you need anything else?"

"Mm. No, I'm good. Thanks."

"Of course. Sleep well, Poland…"

_Interesting times._

—

_A/N: This idea attacked me very suddenly a few days ago ... As before, the actual history here is pretty much just the background of "a lot of Poles moved to Paris" :)_


End file.
